Make 'Em Laugh
by boddabing
Summary: He would spend hours with me, asking my opinions on his material, taking me to see his movies, letting me sit on set at his shows, and – all the while – saying things like "When you write your first show…" and "When you're casting your first movie…" He bestowed all of his wisdom in me, promising to mentor me when my time in the spotlight came and just when I was hired, he died.
1. Chapter 1

**Hey! (Not meant to be read like Ross' depressed "hey")**

**Thank you, my fellow Friends enthusiasts, for opening my story! I sincerely hope you enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Friends or Saturday Night Live.**

* * *

My dad was one of the greats. You name it, he wrote it. His sketches, TV shows, movies, and books were beyond successful, and he wrote with the comedic genius that could pull on your heartstrings while leaving you gasping for breath from laughter. Not only was my father the greatest comedic actor and writer of his generation, but he was also the greatest father you could imagine. He would spend hours with me, asking my opinions on his material, taking me to see his movies, letting me sit on set at his shows, and – all the while – saying things like "When you write your first show…" and "When you're casting your first movie…" He bestowed all of his wisdom in me, promising to mentor me when my time in the spotlight came and just when I was hired onto the writing staff of Saturday Night Live, he died, leaving me to figure out the comedy business on my own.

My alarm clock rang much to early on Monday morning. So early – in fact—that I hit snooze and ended up sleeping an extra hour, making me run drastically late. The way I had to comically slap around the nightstand to attempt to turn off the alarm combined with how I rolled my way out of the bed and onto the floor made for a scene my dad would have probably used to start one of his movies. I made the mad dash to the shower, only to turn the water to a level of scolding hotness that caused me to jump back out of the shower, butt-naked, screaming curse words like a thirteen-year-old who just discovered that the f-word isn't freak. Once the water situation was settled, I allowed myself a solid minute to scrub the hell out of my body, hoping to eliminate the stench of alcohol that seemed to be wafting out of my pores like smell lines on a cartoon character. I did the same with my teeth as a violently brushed them.

I grabbed the first thing I could from my closet, finding myself dressed in a pair of khakis and a white t-shirt with a two-toned blue sweater pulled over it. I stumbled out into the living room of my much too big apartment and winced at the volume of the TV. I must have left it on the night before. I pulled the remote off the couch, intending to turn the volume down, only to pause at what was on the screen.

"Yesterday marked the funeral of Oscar and Emmy-winning comedian, Charles Bing. Known for his numerous and humorous TV shows, movies, and stints on Saturday Night Live, Charles Bing was the world's most loved comedic genius. He suffered from a heart attack earlier last week and services were held yesterday in his honor. I'm sure we speak on behalf of all TV and movie enthusiasts when we say rest in peace to one of the greats. He will be dearly missed."

I scoffed to ignore the prickling sensation in the back of my eyes as the picture of my father in the top left of the screen began to fade away. It's always amazed me that perky, blonde news reporters could deliver news about death and then jump into a new story about a life-saving dog without so much as batting an eyelash. It was the kind of stuff my dad would have written about.

Sighing, I grabbed my New York Yankees cap from the coffee table and headed for the door, stopping only to grab a banana from the kitchen counter on my way out.

* * *

I stepped out of my apartment building, onto a street that had what I usually considered an amazing view of Central Park, but what I now knew as a place that held too many memories. I had given my dad's driver and other employees the week off for obvious reasons, so I stepped out on the street and hailed a cab, mindlessly reciting the familiar address of my destination.

When the cab driver finally worked his way through the early morning, Manhattan traffic, I grossly overpaid him and stepped out onto the curb. For a building known for it's late night comedy, the stature of it was somewhat intimidating, or at least I could see how it could seem that way to others. For me, however, it was just another place where I had spent time as a toddler playing hide-and-go-seek in prop storage, coloring on old scripts, and making those tiny, plastic cowboys and Indians fight on the floor of the writers' room while my dad conducted table reads. My dad had refused to put me in daycare, saying, "People who work with children have no sense of humor."

I learned that the hard way when I spent the better half of my elementary school education being sent to the principal's office for "inappropriate or disrespectful behavior." I remember being so nervous the first time they called my dad in for a conference. They had to call him off of the set of his latest movie just so the principal could inform him that my "constant need to make a joke out of a situation was causing disruption in the classroom." My dad had nodded seriously at all that Dr. Wilkinson had to say, but when we left his office he had laughed loudly and patted me on the back. "At least now," he had said, "I know I don't have to fear you won't be able to pursue a career in comedy."

Right now, it felt like that moment when I had been holding my breath while my principal made the phone call, but this time my dad wasn't here to assure me that I was doing nothing wrong.

Stepping into the studio building, it was easy to spot the newbies. They were dressed in stuffy suits and hesitated when swiping their keycards. Some had to slide theirs through the machine more than once just so they would be facing the right way. I was wearing the perfectly measured, casual attire. Writers were a casual people. They come to work in comfort clothes, ones that allow them to lie on the floor or jump up and down if that's what they need to do to get the creative juices flowing. And, I swiped my card with the calm professionalism of someone who had years of practice and a right to be there. When I stepped onto the elevator, I hit the correct floor button without having to pause to second-guess myself and then I felt it. The stares. I let my eyes dart side to side, checking the reflections of the people behind me in the polished elevator doors. Some of the looks were disbelieving and some were in envy. However, the ones I couldn't stand were the pitying ones. The ones that just screamed, "Dead father. Dead father. Dead father."

The suits let me step out of the elevator first, and I listened to the steps of their shined shoes follow me down the hall. I guess they assumed I knew where I was going, and I did.

I stepped into the writers' room I knew to be our destination and opened the door to a world of chaos and flying papers that I found almost soothing because of its familiarity. But, as soon as I began to relish in the noise, it stopped. Every eye was on me, and the silence was unnerving.

_Say something! Say anything to make it stop!_

Thankfully, I didn't get the opportunity.

"Chandler! Come over here and sit next to me!"

Thank God for Phoebe Buffay.

* * *

**Slightly longer AN:**

**Feel free to review! I would love to get your thoughts/opinions:)**

**Regarding my plans for this story:  
**

**This isn't going to be an easy ride for Chandler. He's just lost a parent, the only one that he ever really had, and now he's forced into the not-always-funny world of comedy. He's got a lot to deal with, so this isn't going to be a happy-go-lucky story all the time.**

**Mondler is my ultimate goal for endgame relationship, but as for the other characters, pairings are still up in the air.**

**We've already met Phoebe! Well, kinda... and Monica, Joey, Ross, and Rachel will all work their way in too and not necessarily in that order! **

**I know not a lot happened in this chapter, but I'm working on setting the stage! **

**I hope you're as excited for this story as I am! **

**Love, **

**Boddabing**


	2. Chapter 2

I had met Phoebe Buffay when I was eight years old, and she was playing my dad's fictional son's best friend on his sitcom _Story of My Life_, a show somewhat based on my dad's life in that he played a struggling script writer and single father in Los Angeles. It was always somewhat ironic – or is it coincidental? – that the person my dad casted for his fictional son's friend became that to his real son.

We had really grown up together, finding ourselves practically inseparable for the majority of our childhood. She had been my first real friend. I had a pretty unstable childhood up until the eighth year of my life. My dad and I had constantly been moving between New York and L.A. as he switched between writing and filming. _Story of My Life_ was the first gig to actually land him in one place for an extended period of time.

Not that the years before that had been torture on me. I loved moving around with my dad. I honestly don't remember a time in my childhood when I wasn't just about the happiest kid on the planet. And why wouldn't I have been? My dad was the funniest man in the world, and he had all the money I could dream of at his disposal just for the purpose of spoiling me, his only dependent, with every new toy or bike that I wanted.

However, vivid memories of my childhood really start with Phoebe Buffay and the way we would sneak desserts off of the food table at the studio and play hide-and-go-seek in everyone's dressing rooms. I still remember the outfits we wore to the Emmys when we were nine and complaining about how we had to spend the evening with a bunch of adults who wasted a night giving speeches and how Phoebe made it fun by whispering fake awards to me for each actor that went to receive one. They had titles like Best Actor in a Suit Much too Small for His Body and Best Actress that Still Needs to Trim her Mustache.

For years it was just Phoebe and I against the world, until we added a new friend to our group. A few media outlets actually dubbed us the Three Musketeers, Phoebe, me, and –

"Earth to Chandler!"

I snapped back to the present much sooner than I wanted.

"Sorry, Pheebs," I replied, trying my best to pass it off with a smirk. "I guess I'm caught up in Chan Chan Man Land again."

"Funny," Phoebe said. "You look good. Much better than you did yesterday."

I cocked my head to the side and appraised my outfit. My jeans were wrinkled and my shirt had a tiny stain dot, which surely came from a rushed cup of coffee, right above my belly button. Not to mention I was pretty sure my sweater had a tiny hole in the back and my once white tennis shoes were stilled stained brown from a puddle I had stepped in two weeks ago.

"You're kidding, right?" I laughed. "Yesterday I was in Armani."

Phoebe shook her head, "You know what I mean. Yesterday, you looked like Chandler Bing, son of the world's most respected funnyman. Today you look like Chandler, best friend to Phoebe Buffay and kickass comedy writer."

"Right, well," I stammered the same way I usually do when faced with any comment that road the line of being deep or serious, "You don't look so bad yourself."

And it wasn't a lie. I never claimed to be oblivious to Phoebe's good looks. She had always had something going for her. The curly, long blonde hair, the killer body, the inert funniness. However, my attraction to Phoebe went no further than a clumsy first kiss when we were eleven that had us both gagging for the weeks after.

"Why thank you!" Phoebe smiled. "And I meant what I said, you're looking good Chandler. I've been worried about you."

"Yeah, well, we don't all have the magical powers to cleanse our own auras when we're feeling a little down," I shrugged, knowing she'd appreciate the allusion to her "psychic" abilities.

"That's another thing, you're considerably less murky today! Did you light the candles last night like I told you to? They're so soothing!"

"Um, yeah, Pheebs. It really helped, thanks," I lied. The last thing I had done the night before was spend time lighting candles in the hopes of them magically curing me. Almost automatically, I scanned the room just to see if anyone was still staring at me. Sure enough, a few eyes were set on me. Of course they looked away when we made awkward eye contact.

It was clear that Phoebe noticed what I was doing when whispered to me, "Don't let the stares get to you, Chandler. It's just like when your dad would take us out to get ice cream and all those cameras would follow us around. Just ignore them, and it's like it's not even happening."

I smiled at her, recognizing her words as the exact ones my dad had told us when we were eight. Phoebe always had a way with saying the exactly right thing. Well, except for all the times she says exactly the wrong thing but with the best intentions.

"Thanks," I said sincerely. "Listen, I know that I've been hard to deal with lately, and I know that I've been worrying you and –"

"Good morning everyone!"

I resisted the urge to groan. I knew that voice anywhere. It was my childhood tormentor. The metaphorical bully in the schoolyard. My arch nemesis when I was feeling especially melodramatic. Pete freakin' Becker.

Of course, that was years ago, back when we were both kids forced to play with each other while our dads worked out business deals. I hadn't seen him since we were fifteen on the count that he had been sent to boarding school. I had heard that his father, George Becker, had been slowly giving him control of different areas at NBC, but I had desperately been hoping that this was not one of those areas.

"If everyone would take a seat," Pete continued, gesturing to the empty chairs around the conference table and to those who were still standing or leaning against the walls of the room. Everyone scurried to an open chair and I straightened my Yankees cap while smiling ruefully at how they all bended to Pete's commands.

Phoebe leaned over in her chair to whisper to me again, "Wipe the smirk off of your face. As much as we would both love to beat his ass, he's our boss now. Who knows, maybe he's changed."

I shook my head just enough so that she would see it, but then straighten my mouth into a more acceptable, practiced, bored look.

"Thank you," Pete said once everyone was seated. I could tell that his smile was perfectly calculated and completely not genuine. I would know. I saw his genuine smile every time he used to steal my toys and hide them in his dad's office when we were kids.

"I'd like to welcome back everyone from our previous writing staffs, we're thrilled that you've returned to our humble show."

I scoffed. Loudly. I couldn't help it, and when everyone turned to face me, I tried to cover it with a cough. But, the look I got from Phoebe showed me that it was a futile attempt.

Pete continued as if I hadn't made a sound, "To those of you who are new, we welcome you to the show. May you actually manage to get a sketch on air this season." Pete laughed loudly and everyone else joined in nervously.

Pete should obviously leave the comedy to the people sitting in front of him.

"Now, I want to make a few things clear about this job. My father has placed me in charge of this show, so I'm your new boss. I'm going to be fair above all else. That means it doesn't matter how long you've been here, or how long you've been working on your sketch, or how long your father or father's father may have worked here." Pete's eyes flittered to me when he listed the last part, and I held my tongue to keep from pointing out that the only reason he had his job was because his father had handed it to him. Contrary to what seemed to be popular belief, I did have to interview for this job. I earned it.

"Those who write the best material will be the ones to get sketches on the show. Period. We're changing things around here. As I am sure you are all well aware, Saturday Night Live's ratings plummeted last year. It was crap. Our first show is in four weeks. Four weeks! And we cannot find well known celebrity willing to put their name out on the line to host. That's what we've become. This show has been around longer than most of us have. That means that we have a responsibility to everyone before us to keep it running. And I'm looking at you guys. You have got to step up. Rise to the occasion. Any questions?"

I glanced around, wondering who would be the first sad bastard to try and get an answer out of Pete Becker. Sure enough, one of the suits raised his hand.

"You said we don't have a host for the opening show."

"That's not a question," Pete cut in.

_Jackass._

"Right, um," the new guy stuttered. "Well, how are we supposed to start writing if we don't know who we're writing for?"

"You can't," Pete scoffed.

Once again I fought the urge to correct Pete. Doesn't he know how anything works? Does he not understand that movies are written far before they're cast? We could easily begin writing generic sketches and then write host-specific ones once we had found a host.

"When are we going to find one?" a man dressed similarly to me, making it safe to assume that he worked here previously, asked.

"Who knows?" Pete scoffed. "This show has dug itself into a grave. You'd be lucky to find anyone worth a viewer! Not to mention your budget has been drastically cut, meaning whomever you get to host will have to do it for practically nothing."

I glanced around at the other writers, all of whom looked equally horrified. I however looked at Phoebe, completely undisturbed. She smiled back at me and nodded her head. She knew as well as I did, we had the perfect solution to this problem.

Phoebe raised her eyebrows to me, and I waved a hand in front of me, giving her permission to voice our idea.

"Joey Tribbiani."

Joseph Francis Tribbiani, the third musketeer. I had met Joey when we were both fifteen, and my dad was auditioning actors for a leading role in one of his movies. Joey hadn't gotten the part, his audition had been atrocious, and he hadn't gotten a single line of the dialogue correct. My dad called him "the worst audition from the best actor" he'd ever seen.

At the time, I had thought my dad was insane. From what I had seen from his audition, Joey was an actor that didn't take anything seriously. And I certainly didn't see any budding talent coming from his mispronunciation of simple words and butchering of short lines. Regardless, Joey and I had become fast friends from the second he apologized to my father for his less-than-stellar performance that he claimed was due to the fact that he had stayed up the entire night before watching the first three _Die Hard _movies.

From that day on, Joey and I had been the best of friends. Since his parents lived in New York, Joey was staying with his sister in L.A., but his sister seemed to have more interest in finding a rich guy to marry than watching after her little brother. As a result, Joey spent most of his nights at my dad's Beverly Hills estate. He was like the brother I never had.

"Ms. Buffay," Pete smiled, but, as usual, it seemed a little forced, "What a _inspired_ suggestion. However, how do you plan to make an actor of his caliber host the show when so far we've been turned down by lesser-knowns?"

Phoebe opened her mouth to reply, but I cut her off.

"I can call him right now. I'm sure he'll be more than happy to do it."

"Ah, Mr. Bing, we're so thrilled to have you join us this season," Pete deadpanned.

I just raised my eyebrows.

"Well," Pete said, "don't you have a call to make?"

I smirked and pulled out my phone, sliding the bar across the screen to unlock it. I scrolled to Joey's number in my contacts and pressed on it to call him.

"_Hello?"_

"Hey, Joe!" I greeted.

"_Chandler! Hey! What's up? How are you doin'? Need some Joey pick-me-up time? 'Cause I'm on set right now, but I forgot to memorize my lines for today, so I could use an excuse to get outta here before they expect me to start actin' and stuff."_

I felt the smile spread across my face before I could stop it. Classic Joey. Always looking to help me while coincidentally helping himself.

"I'm doing good. But, listen, I have a favor to ask," I told him.

"_Dude, you know I love you, but if you're going to ask me to pretend to be your gay best friend to help you pick up girls again, I'm going to have to decline. There's only so many times my PR team can decline the rumors before people start to really believe them."_

"Right, well, as … _tempting_ … as that sounds, I think I have a little more pressing issue than my lack of a love life. Thanks for pointing it out again though, that felt good."

"_Sorry, man. You've got my full attention, I promise. What's up?"_

"I need you to host SNL. I know you've got a lot on your plate with the new movie and stuff, but it would really help –"

"_Say no more! I am so there! Dude! It's like J-Man and Channie at it again!"_

"Joe, _nobody_ calls us that."

"_Nobody calls us that _yet._ I'm thinking of referring to us as that in my next interview."_

"That's fine, but this time try not to refer to us as 'partners.' It took weeks to convince the media that we weren't closeted lovers trying to use Phoebe as a surrogate for our baby."

"_That was crazy! I mean I don't even know what a surrogate is!"_

"Of course you don't, Joey," I laughed. "Anyways, I'm in a meeting, so I've got to go."

"_Right, you're one of _those _people. Actually going to their meetings and stuff. I guess I'll actually try and figure out what I'm supposed to be doing in my next scene. I love you, man."_

"Back atcha, Joe," I said, and then I hung up the phone.

I turned to Pete, who was still standing at the head of the table, watching me expectantly.

I let out a big spy and then smiled.

"Looks like we've got ourselves a host."

* * *

I shut the door to my apartment and immediately headed to the fridge. I yanked it open and pushed aside what seemed to be endless containers of left over Chinese take-out boxes to reach the six-pack bottled beers in the back.

I hauled them out of the fridge and carried them with me to my living room, placing them on the coffee table as I leaned back against the couch.

I grabbed the remote sitting next to me and switched the TV to video, so that the disc in my DVD player began to play. The screen lit up and the sound of his voice on the video was enough to get my tears flowing.

"_Come on, Chandler! You can do it!"_ my dad encouraged.

The screen showed younger me – four-year-old me, to be exact – standing on top of the play set my dad had given to me as a birthday present earlier that day. I was positioned to go down the slide for the first time.

"_Daddy! I can't I'm scared!"_ toddler me exclaimed. My tiny hands were clenching the rail above the slide so tightly that my fingers were turning white.

I laughed bitterly to myself, "You're scared? _You're _scared? He's right there! He's right there in front of you! You're going to be just fine!"

"_I've got you, buddy! Just do it! You've got this!" _my dad called to little me, and even though the video didn't give a shot of his face, I could tell that he had been grinning when he said it.

Younger me slid down the slide, giggling and cheering, while I opened a bottle of beer, sobbing into my hands.

I thought back to what I had told both Phoebe and Joey earlier that day.

I was a liar.

_I'm so not okay._

* * *

**AN:** Thanks to those who reviewed last chapter for their encouraging words! Also, thanks to all of you wonderful readers for taking time to check out my story!

So now we've met Pete Becker and Joey Tribbiani! Get excited:) They're going to have some pretty serious roles from here on out.

I know there's still not Monica, Ross, or Rachel; but we've got half of the gang accounted for! That's something, right?

Please leave a thought or opinion on the chapter! Even if it's just a word:)


	3. Chapter 3

Hangovers.

I hate hangovers.

The rolling motion I used to get out of bed seemed to jostle my brain enough that an immediate trip to the toilet was needed. I purged out everything I had eaten the day before, and then some of that gross, bile stuff that hurts like hell when you puke on an empty stomach.

It took a good few heaves to work myself off of the tile floor and into the shower, where I gave my body a much-needed scrub.

_Note to self: Change bed sheets. They're disgusting._

Admittedly to myself, I was feeling a little down, so I slipped into a dark-wash pair of comfort jeans and pulled a soft, dark green t-shirt over my head. Nothing fancy. And I tried to convince myself that I was imagining the way the shirt fell almost too loosely over my stomach and how I seemed to have to pull my belt an extra few notches so that my pants weren't completely falling off of my ass.

_So what if I've lost a few pounds? That's good for me! Right?_

I brushed those thoughts from my head, though. I took a glance at my dad's – _my _watch. It was my watch now. It confirmed my suspicions that I had once again overslept, leaving me with little to no time to get to work. Sighing in aggravation, I grabbed my Yankees cap from the floor where I had disregarded it last night. I slipped it on my head, and it offered what little amount of comfort it could as I made the mad dash out the door.

I slipped into the elevator, thankful that it was empty. That would at least give me a little time to think about possible sketch ideas or something that would make me not seem like a slacker idiot once I actually made it to work.

However, I should have known the peace wouldn't last. Considering I lived in the top floor penthouse, it was foolish of me to think that the other twenty-five floors wouldn't have someone waiting to get on an elevator. The elevator had only dropped to the twenty-fourth floor when it came to a halt and the doors opened with a ping far too cheerful for such and early hour.

To make matters even better, I actually knew the man stepping into the elevator car.

"Chandler," the much older man greeted me.

"Mr. Heckles," I replied.

Mr. Heckles had been living in the apartment below mine much longer than I had been living in the apartment above him. When I had first moved in, he had been completely standoffish. The first time I had met him was when he came up to my apartment to tell me that he expected me to "keep the noise down." I had jokingly replied that I wouldn't have any parties to which he wouldn't be invited.

His reply was that I shouldn't be having any parties at all.

And, as bizarre as it seems, I had a lot of respect for him. At least he had the balls to come up and tell me how it is. So, I had invited him in for some coffee, and we talked. We talked for a long time, and I found that Mr. Heckles wasn't so unlike myself.

He was voted class clown, he hated awkward situations, he always found something wrong with the girl he was dating, and he had grown up with only a father.

"I was sorry to hear about your dad," Mr. Heckles said in a completely nonchalant voice that only he could pull off without sounding callous and uncaring.

"Right, well, um, thanks," I stammered. This whole accepting sympathy or whatever thing did not bode well with me.

"Well, if you need to talk to someone, or need advice, or a friend," Mr. Heckles shrugged as the elevator door pinged again and opened to the lobby, "you know where I live."

"But, Mr. Heckles," I said with a smile as I slipped out of the elevator, "I think you've told me multiple times that we're not friends."

Mr. Heckles eyes darted across the lobby before he turned to me, "I could be your friend."

He didn't smile at me, and he didn't say it with any excitement, but it still felt like the best offer I had gotten lately.

I walked out of the building, slipping a pair of Ray Bans over my eyes with the intentions of them blocking the early morning sun. I didn't expect I would need them for the sudden attack of flash bulbs and shutter clicks that started as I walked down the street.

_Great, _I thought as I spotted a few men in dark hoodies taking photos of me, _just the way I wanted to start the morning._

* * *

"Oh, Chandler, so nice of you to join us!"

"My pleasure, Pete," I said sincerely, ignoring the disproving look he gave me as I crossed in front of him to get to the empty chair next to Phoebe.

"Thank you to everyone who was _on time_ this morning and ready to work," Pete said.

And at that moment I zoned him out.

I looked around the conference room we were set up in. Everyone was sitting in straight-backed chairs and the shiny, wooden table in front of me shined so violently that my reflection showed in the wood. Thankfully, most of the new guys had taken the hint from yesterday and had come back today wearing more relaxed clothes. Only two or three were left in sports jackets and leather dress shoes.

Pete, of course, was sporting a pretentious suit.

_Hey, I'm Pete; this suit cost more than the salary I can afford to pay you blarg ee blarg blah blah blah blah._

Of course, in my head I worked to picture Pete in embarrassing, cartoon character underwear.

_Now _that's _funny._

Not paying attention proved to be quite the entertainment, until my big mouth had to go and ruin it for me.

Laughter. I heard it before I even recognized it as my own. Then, I was quick to snap my mouth closed. It was too late.

"Something funny, Chandler?" Pete asked, condescendingly.

"No, no, of course not," I said innocently. "I mean, nothing about what you were saying. What you were saying was very serious and businessy. I was just thinking about some sketches I'm working on."

_Oh yes, Chandler. Brilliant. Mention sketches that you don't have written. _

"Of course you were," Pete agreed, but he seemed to know exactly I had really been doing. "I was just about to ask if anyone had any in comedic strokes of genius last night. Why don't you go first?"

Panic. That was the first thing that set in. Due to my excessive drinking last night and lack of time this morning, I hadn't even been able to jot down a fleeting funny thought on my hand. If only Mr. Heckles hadn't –

_Mr. Heckles. Heckles. Heckler. Got it._

"Okay," I found myself saying. "Okay, so a guy – a guy and his friend live in an apartment."

"Yeah, this is New York City. That's a common thing," Pete interrupted.

"And they have this old man who lives below them that won't stop bothering them because he thinks they make too much noise!"

"I don't see the funny," Pete said.

_Okay. Okay, what are the weird things Mr. Heckles does? What was something that he said this morning?_

"_I think you've told me multiple times that we're not friends."_

"_I could be your friend."_

"I'm getting there! Okay so the funny thing is that whenever the old man comes up to their door his complaint is about something he totally made up, right? He says things like, 'Stop with all the noise, you're disturbing my turtles while they're trying to nest.' And then the guys with the apartment say, 'But you don't have any turtles.' And then the old guy says, 'I could have turtles.' And then he just leaves making the guys with the apartment super confused!"

_Silence._

_Oh, God, was that stupid? Did I really just pitch that? Why is everyone so quiet?_

But then it started. First it was a tiny chuckle from the guy sitting across from me. I gave him a thankful smile. Then, Phoebe joined in with a laugh that was so infectious that the entire room joined in. Well, the entire room minus Pete.

"That's really good," Phoebe laughed. "It could be recurring, you know, like, the old guy could claim he has all sorts of stuff. We just keep making it more and more bizarre and it'll keep getting funnier and funnier!"

There was a murmur of concurrence around the table, and I watched as Pete picked up the Expo marker from where it rested on the table. He turned to the whiteboard behind him and then glanced back at me.

"So, what's the guys name?" Pete asked.

"What?" I asked back.

"The old man, what's his name?"

"Oh," I shook my head a little, and said what came to mind, "Mr. Heckles."

"Okay," Pete said and he pulled the cap off of the marker. He messily wrote Mr. Heckles at the top left corner of the board and then turned back to us. "From what I guess that would be about a four minute sketch. That means you have about fifty more minutes of show time to fill. Anyone have a monologue?"

* * *

By the end of the day's meeting, we had filled thirty minutes of show time, deciding to call it a day when we realized Joey needed to have some input in what he would be doing.

Today had gone smoothly for the most part. My Mr. Heckles sketch had set the ball rolling and more and more writers threw out ideas. Some of which were hilarious, others missed the mark and were thrown straight to the trash bin. Phoebe had offered up some hilarious song lyrics that were easily convertible to digital shorts, and I was once again reminded of what my dad had seen in her when she was only eight years old.

"Thant girl is going to be a comedy gold mine," my dad had told me when he casted her.

He was right, just like he usually was when it came to this sort of stuff. However, Phoebe wasn't crazy about the spotlight. She much preferred the behind-the-scenes stuff, which is why she went out for a writing position at SNL instead of auditioning to be a player. A decision I found ridiculous, but she had pointed out that I wasn't trying to be a player either. So that was that.

"Hey, Chandler!"

_Speak of the devil._

"Hey, Pheebs!" I called, turning from where I had been trying to hail a cab.

"What, no fancy driver designated to pick you up today?" she laughed.

"Gave him the week off," I shrugged.

"Oh," Phoebe nodded. "I mean _oh_. Wow, Chandler, that's pretty nice of you. Y'know, good for your karma."

"Just trying to do my part in keeping the universe in my favor," I shrugged, knowing that it didn't sound as convincing as I wanted it to.

"You're sketch idea was really good, Chandler," she told me. "If you can make up stuff like that on the spot, there's no telling what you could do if you actually went home and worked on an idea."

Phoebe was giving me that look she had whenever she knew what she was saying was the truth.

"How do you know I didn't marinate on that one last night?" I asked. "For all you know, it took me all night."

"Please," Phoebe laughed. "I've known you fifteen years, Chandler. You were freaking out when Pete called you out. Anyways, what I'm trying to say is that maybe tonight you go home and you work on stuff for the show.

"As opposed to…?" I said as if I had no idea what she was hedging at.

"You were wincing through half of our meeting because the fluorescents were so bright and I saw you cringe when that guy got so excited that he was practically screaming his ideas. Not to mention the bags under your eyes are the size of hammocks. You're hung-over, Chandler, and that's not okay. So tonight, promise me you'll go home and work on the show."

I thought about denying it, convincing her that I just hadn't gotten much sleep. But, Phoebe was one of the few people – two people, now – that new me enough to know what was best for me. So, instead, I just stuck my hand out past the curb and a taxi pulled up.

"I promise, Pheebs," I told her. I gave her shoulder a quick squeeze and then stooped into the back of the cab, rattling off my address to the driver.

* * *

I opened my door, expecting the apartment to be silent as I had left it that morning, but instead I heard voices coming from the TV and the hum of the open refrigerator.

"You know, if you're going to break into my house, the least you could do is not run up my electric bill with an open fridge."

A figure jumped up from the couch.

"Sorry, man, you know how excited I get when you've got left over Chinese from that place off of 33rd!" he replied.

"Yeah, Joey, last time you almost broke the door off of the thing when I told you it was in there!" I laughed. "So, what are you doing here?"

"You know," Joey fumbled. "I was in the neighborhood, so I thought –"

"Did Phoebe call you?" I interrupted.

"No!" Joey responded too quickly. "No, dude, I swear I was just found myself walking down the your street and then – Then, I saw this raccoon! This giant raccoon, and I was like, 'Stay away from me, you furry rodent!' But it kept chasing me, so I ran into your building to escape it."

"To escape the giant raccoon?" I asked, raising an eyebrow to Joey.

"Yes."

"That's what _really _happened?"

"Yeah!" Joey insisted. I just held my stare. "Okay, so maybe it didn't happen _exactly like that_, but there was definitely a raccoon!"

"Really?"

Joey sighed, "Only if you consider Phoebe a raccoon." He pouted, crossing his arms over his chest like a toddler.

"There it is."

"But irregardless of why I'm here –" Joey continued.

"Regardless."

"Regardless of what?" Joey asked. I had to work hard not to roll my eyes.

"No, I'm just trying to tell you that irregardless isn't a word. It's regardless," I clarified, even though I knew it wasn't any use.

"Oh," Joey frowned. "So irregardless of why I'm here, I am here. So, let's _do _something, buddy! Where's the foosball table?"

I chanced a fleeting glace to where the hardwood was scratched from where I had flipped the foosball table over the night my father had died.

"Oh, I, um, some of the little men were chipped, so I had it sent out to be fixed."

_There, that's not a complete lie. It is being fixed._

"So, fireball then?" Joey grinned, and I almost felt bad about how easily he believed me.

"The lighter fluid's in the closet!"

* * *

Later that night, after Joey had left, and I was left alone in an apartment far too large for one man, I stood with my hand poised on the refrigerator door.

_Just one beer won't hurt me._

_Phoebe only doesn't want me to get wasted. There's nothing wrong with a little buzz._

I opened the fridge door.

"_Promise me you'll go home and work on the show."_

"_I promise, Pheebs."_

I slammed the door shut, "Dammit."

Shaking my head, I grabbed the notepad and pen I usually used to jot down grocery needs from the granite countertop.

I walked to the living room, plopped down on the couch, and began to write.

* * *

**AN: **Once again, thank you to those who reviewed! I know that a lot more people read the story than review it, so it really means a lot to me that you took the time to write how you feel about the story!

I know that right now updates are extremely frequent, but this story is really flowing for me, and I have a lot of ideas!

Still no Monica, Ross, or Rachel. Or Gunther for that matter...

I do have a quick question, though! I have pretty definite ideas of how Monica and Ross will work they're way into Chandler's life; however, I'm having a little bit of trouble with Rachel. What my dilemma pretty much boils down to is whether she'll be brought in as a love interest for Ross or Joey. So, if you have an opinion on that matter, please share it with me in a review!

Thanks so much for reading!

Love,  
boddabing


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